


The Russian Medic Affair [translated]

by koimizu



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Russian Medic AU, Translation, War AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:04:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6237913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koimizu/pseuds/koimizu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>English translation of a Chinese fanfic inspired by <a href="Http://hiruhirudo.tumblr.com">Hiru</a>’s <a href="http://www.plurk.com/p/lbiyxq%20%0A">wonderful Korean War AU fanart</a>, where Napoleon is in the US Army while Illya is a Russian medic, as you might have guessed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Russian Medic Affair [translated]

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [The Russian Medic Affair (軍醫AU)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/181609) by Bluei40925. 



> Disclaimer from translator: I know nothing of the war; all grammatical mistakes are mine, but the story, the idea and the characters(canon or AU) are not.

It was a sunny afternoon, a rare one ever since winter has come.  
  
Their battle with the North Korean troop had came to a standstill. Napoleon wetted his chapped lips, took some newspapers and decided to sneak back into the temporary tent for a short break. As soon as he went out to the open area, distant noise of shouting and shoving caught his attention.

Behind the kitchen, a bunch of young officers formed a semicircle. Napoleon pushed through and saw a small figure curling on the ground, his dirty arms holding up to protect his head; only his disheveled blond hair can be seen.  
  
"What's happening here?" Napoleon barked.

The young men hesitated and looked at each other, until Scott answered under his stare, sounding unsure. "The detainee was trying to escape from the camp, sir." Scott was standing in the middle of that circle when he approached, and spat beside the man when Napoleon pulled him away.

"Torturing detainees is not amongst the duties of an American soldier. Explain yourself."

"He is the Russian medic we captured in Jinju, sir. We saw him acting suspiciously behind the admin office, but he refused to say anything once we caught him."  
  
Napoleon knew about him; the medical officer called Kuryakin, whom they captured in Jujin, was one of the best supporting personnel the USSR sent to North Korea. The interrogation revealed absolutely nothing; they almost employed water torture, but the blue eyes never wavered, not even slightly. Eventually the general decided to put him into the medical unit, saying that getting someone who knew how to dress wounds would be better than someone dead.

Napoleon looked at the Russian fallen on the ground. Scott had him beaten up quite thoroughly; the slim figure was still gasping, and when the threat subsided, his almost boyish face peeped out from behind his arms, gazing around cautiously and nervously.  
  
“Let him up.” said Napoleon, frowning when he saw the soldiers pulling away the Russian’s arms.

“Hear that? Stand up, Russkie.” Scott acted like he was tugging a puppy, roughly pulling him up by the collar. The Russian winced as if in pain, but his face was emotionless again in an instant, staring at Napoleon dispassionately, eyes sharp under his pale lashes, like a deer listening to the winds and ready to run away any second. He seemed somewhat strangled, but apart from his slightly flushed cheeks, Napoleon could see no other signs.

“Let go, Scott.”

“But sir...” Scott seemed hesitant.

“Let go of him, Sergeant Scott, that’s an order.” Napoleon said coldly.

Scott let go as he was told to, but gave the man a hard shove when he did. They watched the Russian stumbling and recovering his balance, albeit arduously. His thin clothes were stained and dirty, and with his shoulders hunched he looked extra skinny among the soldiers. Napoleon wasn’t sure if the Russian had always looked like this, or if his tormented life here as a detainee made him so weak and fragile. He dismissed Scott and the other soldiers, noticing that the Russian flinched infinitesimally when he raised his arm.

“It’s okay.” Napoleon said with a smile; then he shrugged off his trenchcoat and put it onto the Russian’s shoulders. The man blinked; after a moment, he lowered his eyes and pulled Napoleon’s trenchcoat closer around himself.

“It would seem unobservant to ask if you’re alright; let’s go to the medical room. I’m sorry they treated you like that.” Napoleon said gently. He started striding forward and paid no particular attention to the silent Russian.

 

\------

  
“I am Napoleon Solo, responsible for...some administrative work, so to speak. How about you, what’s your name? It's too formal to call each other by surname.”

Illya sat on an emptied bed and watched the American searching through various bottles in the medical cart. After a while, he was back with a few cotton swabs soaked with iodine. Napoleon took Illya’s hand and held it in front of his eyes, taking a close look at the abrasions on his fingers. Then he cleaned the wounds carefully with saline water. Illya stared at the transparent liquid dripping from his fingers, creating on the ground some darkened spots, and then an indistinctive puddle. He didn’t respond to Napoleon’s words; the American just shrugged and didn’t seem to mind. He then naturally took the other hand that Illya stretched out.  
  
Illya knew about Napoleon. After the higher rank officials of the UN Command decided to stop interrogating him for Soviet intelligence for the time being, he was put into the medical unit; there was always a gun pointing at his back in surgeries, and he was often beaten for disobedience.

Napoleon appeared in the medical tent when they retreated from Jinju to Pyongyang, a black trenchcoat which stood out in his world of red and white. Illya continued to stitch up the wound he was working on steadily, but was distracted by the sight of the stranger sitting beside a man who had lost his arm. The stranger opened a wine flask and helped the injured man to drink, then whispered something; they burst into laughter in such a carefree manner, as though they were not in some foreign land filled with gun smoke and deaths.

Illya cut the suture off and approached them; the gun-pointing soldier followed. “Dressing change.” He tossed the steel container on the bedside table and started working; when he was done dressing the wound, the man in black trenchcoat looked him in the eye and thanked him sincerely.  
  
But eventually, the one-armed officer died of acute sepsis caused by wound infection. When he was cremated, only the man in trenchcoat was there, bringing a tiny stars-and-stripes flag.

Illya watched Napoleon wrapping the gauze efficiently; then his hands were raised involuntarily before he could react. The bruises hurt so much that Illya tensed and yelped against his will.  
  
"You should have warned." Illya said coldly.

“Sorry. I forgot that your arms were also injured.” Napoleon’s warm hands stroked his shoulders appeasingly.  
  
Speaking no more, Illya looked upward impassively and let Napoleon check his bruising face. Napoleon kept on talking but he didn’t pay much attention, until the stream of words stopped in mid-sentence.

He followed Napoleon’s line of sight and saw a handful of colourful candies scattered on the bed, prominent against the white linen.  
  
Illya instantly paled; he touched his sleeve anxiously once, then stared at Napoleon warily. Damn, he thought. Napoleon had an indescribable expression on his face; he opened his mouth but nothing came out. Eventually he said, “So it was the kitchen that you sneaked into, not the admin room?” Napoleon looked at the colourful jelly beans on the bed disbelievingly, then at the Russian, connecting the dots after a while.  
  
“Hold on a second.” Napoleon patted his shoulder and darted past the beds into the medical officer’s room. Illya watched him ransacking the officer’s drawers, until he was back with a few packets of candies in his hands.  
  
“Let me tell you a secret, Marshall loves putting these in his drawers, so next time you want something to eat, you may find some in there.” Napoleon said secretively, with a hand half-covering his mouth.  
  
“You don’t need to...” Illya started, but Napoleon stopped him by holding up a finger.  
  
Illya raised his head and stared at Napoleon (who was still poking around the medical cart) for a long time; he didn’t know what the American wanted. Then he put the packets of chocolate candies into his jacket pocket.  
  
“Illya. Illya Kuryakin.” He spoke abruptly when Napoleon was closing the first aid box.  
  
Napoleon seemed stunned at his words for a moment; he looked at Illya blankly, then he smiled. Illya noticed the laugh lines at the corner of his eyes.  
  
“Napoleon Solo. Pleasure to meet you.”


End file.
